


Secondhand

by wanderingempress



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Break Up, F/F, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:02:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingempress/pseuds/wanderingempress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura's gotten less than stellar grades before (rarely), but this time is different. And Danny's not used to losing. Predominantly Hollence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one rode around in my brain for quite a while before its time came (and it's probably late anyhow). Mad kudos to everyone who was so sweet after episode 24. Also, credit for the idea of Claire goes to whoever's behind Danny's Twitter.

Laura: on her way to class, trying to figure out if she wanted “Bird On A Wire” finally out of her head or stuck in there forever, trailing somewhat aimlessly behind a pair of random people.

“Hey, did something happen to Lawrence?”

The conversation caught Laura’s attention at once, and she sped up just a little to walk behind the speaker, an unfamiliar Zeta brother.

“I haven’t heard anything, why?” His friend, a girl with blonde hair cut short, sounded indifferent, but Laura remembered seeing her around, and she always sounded indifferent. Whatever.

“Well, I was talking to Matt, and he said the midterms are usually back by now, but I don’t think anybody’s gotten them yet.”

“Weird. Hey, Claire!” the blonde called out.

Claire, ridiculously tall even while seated, looked up and came over to walk alongside the pair. “What’s up?”

“Have you seen Danny?” the blonde asked her. “Apparently something’s up with the midterms for her lit class.”

“Ohhh…” Claire paused. “Ummm. Oh, right, I think I remember hearing that…that she was in the middle of grading and when the ink started turning brown and getting all thick, it turned out that her red pen had somehow started writing in blood. So it’s going to be a little bit longer before they come back.”

The Zeta nodded. “That’s rough.”

 _Claire_ , Laura thought, _is a terrible liar_ , and she almost wanted to say as much. But there was nothing she could do, so she tried to redirect her mind and her steps to her next class. It was only partly successful.

 

Days passed. Friends disappeared and reappeared just as suddenly, but some people stayed gone. Everything fit in the frame of Laura’s vlog. Every night, when the howling started, Carmilla would roll her eyes but refuse to explain why when Laura asked her.

“You don’t want to know,” she would say. “And I don’t want you to know,” she would mutter to herself when she thought Laura couldn’t hear. Laura wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but she was sure she’d be wasting her breath asking.

Laura found herself waiting, but she didn’t know what for. The midterm? Surely not—the midterm had been horrible, and it was best forgotten. But there was something just off in the future, just out of sight. Maybe it really was just the midterm.

 

Wednesday. Lit class. Laura saw the Zeta look over a heavily ink-reddened set of pages. When he pulled a face and set it aside, she snuck a glance. She understood the face at once—the Zeta appeared to have had an especially difficult time with the exam. But the crimson scrawl on it, she saw, ordinarily loose and a little unruly in its tendency to ignore margins and slant unpredictably to the right, was now tight, cramped, straight, darker—and it was riddled with phrases abruptly struck out. And, she realized a moment later, she still didn’t have her own paper back.

 

Night had fallen, and the howling hadn’t begun yet. Laura remarked on its regularity, on how she’d come to expect it now, on how strangely quiet it was tonight. There was a slight, cool breeze that blew through the nearly bare branches overhead, but the only sound was the fallen leaves crunching drily under her feet—feet that were unthinkingly taking her to the cafeteria. Which was the last place she should go now. Against her better judgment, Laura remembered the simple, wondrous magic of pie and of being allowed out after dark with an impossibly tall, funny, sweet girl who seriously thought that maybe they ought to try their hand at writing _Alice in Frankenstein: The Secret Garden_ sometime.

_“You’re joking” she had protested in embarrassment, convinced that Danny still thought she was an incoherent idiot._

_“No, no, I swear I’m not,” Danny had said, laughing. “Really.”_

_Laura had looked up at this, met the intense blue eyes that were full of mirth, tried to hold Danny’s gaze even though a tiny part of her still wanted to disappear._

_“Really,” Danny had said again. “What if it turned out to be really good? And even if it didn’t,” she said, cocking her head a little and leaning toward Laura, “wouldn’t it be so much fun anyway, to try?”_

_Laura had secretly wanted to start right then, and Danny’s enthusiasm had made her feel even warmer than the pie had, but she had said, “Well, we’ll see,” and busied herself with the slice oozing marionberries (and what else? definitely something else…) on her plate._

And now, in fact, Laura found that she was craving pie, which was horribly inconvenient, and here she was, standing alone outside in the dark and quiet like a lost puppy. Pathetic. She drew herself up to her self-assured, composed, independent five feet and two inches and turned to head back to the dorm.

Upon her return, she found Carmilla dressing to go out—to where, she had no idea. “Mail for you,” Carmilla said, handing Laura a manila envelope bearing her name and address, expression unreadable.

 _Dad?_ Laura thought. _I just called him yesterday_. She opened the envelope and pulled out the papers inside.

Her name was in the corner, and her handwriting covered most of the page, which was wrinkled and dimpled in random spots where Laura's ink ran. A tidy green cursive that she had never seen before, surely not Danny's, marched along the side of the page, evenly offering corrections. Turning to the next page, she saw more of the same, and then more on the next. As Laura turned back to the front to look for a grade, she caught a distant, faint keening sound that caught and turned into a full-throated howl.

Carmilla sighed. Laura looked up from her midterm. The vampire shook her head, an unexpectedly grim look in her eyes. “She’s late tonight,” she said, and then she was gone before Laura could say a word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who've believed in her, tomato and all.

The door was closed, but she didn’t care. She opened it and crossed the threshold, a well-rehearsed yet still-jumbled speech on her lips—something about worry and impulsivity and forgiveness and _why didn’t you just tell me?_

“I wouldn’t be here if I were you.”

Her words fell away. Danny scanned the room: Carmilla lounging on her bed with a book and a bad attitude, Laura’s bed made and empty, Laura’s camera off, Laura nowhere to be seen.

“And why is that?”

“You know why.” Amusement tinged Carmilla’s voice.

“Well, you don’t belong here either, then.” As soon as she spoke, Danny internally kicked herself. God, had she conceded so early? No. This couldn’t be.

“Actually,” Carmilla said, not bothering to look at her, “I think that’s still an open question. But you? Laura’s made her feelings about you quite clear, as we _all_ know.”

Danny’s eyes flashed to the camera. She had forgotten about that, but it explained a lot, now that she thought about it. Why her sisters had variously surrounded her at once with offers of chocolate, music recommendations, and party invitations or tiptoed around her as if she were a vengeful ghost that only they could see. Why the library catalog had grown suddenly polite to her and begun littering its messages with a profusion of smiling emoticons. Why that one dumbass Zeta had convinced his friends to follow her around calling her “Daddy,” and then they’d nearly all taken it up.

Carmilla gave an exaggerated sniff. “And, what’s more, Fido, you still reek of mushrooms. Hardly the way to make a good impression, don’t you think?”

Danny bristled. “That was uncalled for.”

“And so were you! Funny how these things work out.”

“I swear to god…” Keep it together, Lawrence.

And of course Carmilla had heard that mutter. Of _course_ she had. Danny heard her chuckle. “God is dead. Try to keep up, as difficult as it seems to be.” Carmilla stood now. “But do it somewhere else. As much as I’ve been enjoying our little conversation, I have better things to do.”

“You have—” Just one point, she thought desperately. Not even the last word, just one point against her would be _something_. One note of defiance. This was embarrassing. “You have—well, you can go right ahead and _bite me_! I don’t have to go—”

Danny’s back collided with the wardrobe, and the bottom dropped from her stomach. She crumpled from the impact. Carmilla caught her by the throat, her eyes level with Danny’s.

“You learn slowly,” she said, voice low. “Did even you consider what would happen if I did?” Carmilla stroked her jugular casually with her thumb, unblinking. “Perhaps I should tell you how it would go.”

Danny gripped Carmilla’s wrist, weighing her odds, but the answering pressure made her gasp.

“No, you’re going to listen to me, because I’m not going to repeat myself. And if I were you,” Carmilla growled, leaning close so that they were nearly nose-to-nose, eyes boring into Danny’s, “I’d remember that Laura’s camera is turned off, that she’s in class for the next hour, that she’d not expecting you here at all, and that she trusts me _completely_.”

“Bullshit,” Danny said without thinking. “She would never be so blind.” A fresh jolt of fear arced through her at the outburst. Carmilla still hadn’t looked away, and her fingers were still wrapped just as tightly around Danny’s throat, that one thumb rubbing up and down, harder now, ceaselessly tracing the vein.

“You don’t know her.” The amusement in Carmilla’s voice, long waning, was gone, replaced by cold assurance.

Danny’s vision swam and blurred—from tears or from slow strangulation, she couldn’t tell. In the silence, her mind was overrun with warring thoughts. _Fight back, dammit, just one blow. You can’t let her do this, can’t let her say these things and get away with it._ Danny glared at Carmilla, or at least at her outline. _She’s got you nearly on your knees. You’re stronger than this. But—_ her attention turned to her uneven breath. _She’s stronger than you. She’s killed before, who knows how many times, and probably the only reason she hasn’t killed you is—oh, god. The only reason you’re still alive now is because she doesn’t give enough of a shit about you. She has everything she wants, and you pose no threat to that. You have to do something, make her see, make her respect you—and Laura. But then she’ll kill you._

Carmilla’s fingers loosened, but Danny couldn’t tell why. Danny clutched at the wardrobe to steady herself. She pulled herself up to her full height, and, looking down at Carmilla and the room, she suddenly felt exposed and far too visible. At the same time, her breath was returning, she could see Carmilla clearly now, and the pressure building in her whispered _try again_.

But Carmilla was settling back onto her bed and taking up her book again, her point made, the whole affair apparently nothing more than an irritating distraction to her. Danny bit her tongue and tried to focus her mind on the resulting pain as she left the room: not the defeat that threatened to consume her, not the heedless spirit that urged her to challenge Carmilla again, but the crescent of flesh that grew tender between her teeth.

She pulled the door shut, and it slammed, which offered the slightest flicker of satisfaction. In the hallway, she felt the place where Carmilla had touched her, and although the skin felt the same as ever, her eyes watered, and something bubbled up her throat. She blinked vigorously and wished in silence, _please, not here, not now._

Emerging from the building, she saw a trio of Zetas throwing a Frisbee among themselves. She slowed and mentally ran through alternative routes back to the Summer Society house, looking straight ahead. But one final thump of plastic was followed by a long silence: they had seen her.

The falsetto reached her from afar: “Hey Daddy, I promise I’ll be home by ten!”

She froze.

“Did you put the GPS on her yet? Did she get away from you again?”

She turned to stare at them.

“Oh shit.” A pause. “I swear I’ll be good, Daddy, please don’t ground me!”

“I know you don’t like her, but she’s so _mysterious!_ ”

“You just don’t understand our love!”

Yet again, Danny weighed her odds. _I could take them, even now. They’re big, but they’re stupid. And they’d deserve it._

“You know what, I bet you’ve got her tied up in your room so she can’t escape! For her _protection_!”

“Oh Daddy, my girlfriend’s so mean! She calls me names and doesn’t do her share of the chores! Save me!”

She charged, aiming at For Her Protection. But before she reached her target, she collided with something large and solid. She drew back from it, ready to strike, but it was Kirsch.

He looked at her, a brief glance as if to check that he’d indeed intercepted the correct person, then turned to the Zetas.

“Bros. Totally uncool. We took a vow.”

“Not for those psychos! They can fend for themselves!”

“But we took a vow. And she’s still a hottie.”

Falsetto One looked at Falsetto Two. “Psycho hottie.” A nod of approval. “I can dig it.” Falsetto Two looked back at his partner in crime but raised no objection. For Her Protection, bending the Frisbee back and forth in his hands, persisted.

“You’re only saying that because she wouldn’t go out with you last year! And she’s psycho!”

“Bro. I got over that. And we took a—”

A pattern seemed to be developing. Danny took advantage of the Zetas’ engrossing ethical impasse to walk, with as much composure as she could muster, to the nearest building. Once she rounded the corner of the library, out of the Zetas’ line of sight, she broke into a run.

Her feet struck pavement, grass, pavement again. Muscle, variously weak and tense, swiftly awakened, old strength returning and memory guiding her steps. When the house loomed in front of her too soon, she veered to the side, passed it, kept going into the woods at whose border it sat. The overcast sky held a high, pale sun that cast a dull light further dimmed by the trees. Classes would still be in session, most of Silas’s students still on its campus—likely no one to see her, and little light for any random wanderer to see her by anyway. Alive, alone, she devoured this familiar domain underfoot.

A long time later, she began to breathe a little harder, Soon, the panting intensified and she felt herself slowing. But then, as she always did, for better or for worse, she heard the voice: _don’t stop, just a little bit further_. Her heart and legs burning, she felt the tears well up again, and this time they spilled freely. She put on a burst of speed, pushing harder, harder, willing herself onward.

Sobs began to mingle with panting, gasping breaths, and Danny felt the burning numb. She came to a gradual stop and fell to the ground, broken heart pounding. Disgraced, alone, lost everywhere but here. Laura. Carmilla. The Zetas. Her sisters. That fucking midterm. Everything wrong, and she the common element. Sobbing turned to bawling, tears of bitterness and confusion and pain falling fast to the dry earth as she knelt on all fours, blind to her surroundings. Thoughts flashed through her mind, and she considered shouting some of them, but none were powerful enough, and they stuck in her throat: waves of _I’m sorry, I don’t understand, Why am I so wrong? All I’ve done was out of love…_

A small voice interrupted: _is it really love? You’ve barely known her. Maybe you really_ don’t _know her…_

Danny rested her forearms on the ground and laid her head in her hands. _I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know._ The sobs rose and fell with the echo.

At last, they dwindled. Her body stilled. Danny lifted her head and looked ahead, nearly eye-level with the ferns that dotted the forest floor.

“I don’t recognize us anymore,” she said quietly, then decided against pursuing the question of precisely who “us” meant.

She staggered to her feet, steadying herself against a tree, hollow and exhausted. She took a few shaky steps and a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the forest, rich and complex and always vaster than sorrow.

Halfway to the house, her phone rang. She cleared her throat a few times, then answered.

“Hey, Lawrence?”

“Kirsch?” Wariness flared—but only a little. After all, he’d called her by name, so things could’ve been worse.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” He snorted in disgust. “I’m sorry about my bros. Some of them were totally dicks when I lost SJ, too. They have a hard time with feelings sometimes. And…I’m sorry I got involved back there.”  
“No, it’s fine,” Danny said, trying to brush off the impression that this was all very surreal. “Although I object to certain arguments you made in my defense, I actually appreciate the gesture.”

“Yeah, I thought you might, but…I mean, it just felt _weird_ somehow to do that. I mean, you’re always…man, are you okay, Lawrence?” Kirsch sounded as confused as she felt.

“I’m fine. Thanks.” The feeling was returning to her legs, mainly in the form of painful protest, and although she was still drained, she was becoming achingly substantial again.

“When she died,” Kirsch said suddenly, “they thought I was crazy because I’d only known her for a little while. But I started really wanting to know who she was, you know, before she was like…that. A friend of hers sent me some of her music, and I…I played it for days. And…” Danny heard what was unmistakably a sniffle, but she said nothing. “I still don’t know. Except most of it was sad. I don’t know why. But I think about her, and it’s like, maybe because that thing happened to her, her last days were happy, because then she went to parties, and I made her hot chocolate, and she stopped playing all the sad music. I don’t know.”

There was a long silence. Danny was nearing her house now.

“I could send you the songs if you want.”

“I might take you up on that.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Cool. Bye, Lawrence.”

“Bye, Kirsch.”

Danny hung up, shaking her head. Kirsch was right—all of it was weird. But he meant well, and especially right then, she had to give him credit for that.

No sooner did she walk into the house than she saw Claire seated on the couch with papers strewn too tidily around her. Claire took in the tearstained face, red eyes, dirt-streaked knees, disheveled hair, and air of weariness and commenced watching her like a science experiment going only slightly wrong so far.

 _Well, screw you_ , Danny thought. She turned away and went upstairs to her room.

Something about it looked different, but she couldn’t place what it was. Perhaps her own eyes had changed—or maybe it had just been an exhausting day and tomorrow all would go back to normal.

No, who was she kidding? Today had been shitty, and tomorrow might be, too. She stared out the window at the woods stretching far into the distance, always big enough to hold whatever she could not. In the end, she was still undefeated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the patient six. I hope it's worth the wait.

Thursday night. The caf, empty save for herself.

Okay, so Laura had caved. But sugar went just as well with heartbreak as it did with foolish, foolish infatuation. And Carmilla had started to become seriously agitated by “Bird On A Wire,” and Laura was finding that the song wasn’t quite the same with an unsolicited accompaniment of sighs and dark mutterings.

The pie lingered, saccharine and thick, on her tongue. It was wrong, but that was what made it perfect.

She caught a flash of something salmon-colored at the edge of her vision and heard a plate being set down in the distance. Laura stared ahead and willed herself not to look. The universe had a sick sense of humor, but that didn’t mean she had to acknowledge it.

She took out her planner, tried to ignore the crossed-out “Meet Danny” from the day before, and wished she hadn’t written it in several weeks in advance along with even more entries for future Wednesdays. She skimmed the list of tasks for the next day or two. For intro to anthropology: a series of passages from Mary Douglas’s _Purity and Danger_. For psych and intro bio: mercifully, nothing that couldn’t wait until the weekend. For lit class—no. For journalism: a chapter out of William Zinsser, called “Nonfiction as Literature.” Seriously?

From afar, a tinny voice sang, “Don’t go around tonight, well, it’s bound to take your life, there’s a bad—”

“Hello? Mom?” The answering voice betrayed a mixture of relief and forced cheeriness.

Don’t look, don’t look—and definitely don’t listen.

“No, no, I’m still up. Yeah, everything’s fine. I’m just sitting here having some pie.” A pause. “Yeah, I know, it’s a lovely night and I should be out, but…no, everything’s fine with the sisters. Claire told me to tell you her mom says hi—she’s been trying to get a hold of you, but she says her calls keep going to voicemail.”

Laura reread the list. Wait, wasn’t there something for bio? She could have sworn there was something for bio.

“Oh, she said that? Well, that’s just like her, isn’t it? I don’t know what good she sees coming from broadcasting it to the whole world, since it probably already has been, and it’s completely obvious anyway. Anybody whose business it is already knows…I know, I know, some people feel the need to do that…I know…No, I won’t say anything to her about it.” Bitterness turned to anticipation. “Yeah, I can smell it in the air too. I bet Dad is itching to go hunting again when I get home for winter. Remember—” The memory called forth easy laughter. “Oh gosh, remember last year, when he got so sick of having such terrible luck he just dove headfirst into that snowdrift and just stayed there half-buried until we finally coaxed him back out? ‘Cause I’d asked him to give me some pointers, and he just couldn’t seem to get _anything_?” More laughter.

The write-up for that last lab, Laura thought. That was what was coming up in bio. Well, maybe she’d start it a little bit early.

“I don’t know, Mom…” Laura strained to hear. “I mean, I really thought so too…No, it’s not because of that, I never had a chance to…No, I wasn’t keeping it a secret or anything, I just never got around to saying anything. I don’t know, maybe it _was_ because of that, even though it’s pretty obvious, and I’m sure she knew—god, it would be such a fucking cliché though, you know?” The call had grown louder and more bitter again, until Laura could plainly hear, “I mean, to think that I’d end up in the middle of this—oh shit.”

The sudden change in tone snapped Laura out of her eavesdropping. She realized that she had been staring blankly ahead, pie and planner untouched, for at least the past several minutes. She stared at the pie again, wishing she could redo that unfortunate stretch of time, but it was too late.

“Mom, I’m going to have to call you back in a few minutes. No, everything’s still fine. I’ll just call you back in a little bit.”

There were brisk, heavy footsteps in the distance, then a door slammed. Laura was left alone again with her pie and more regret than she’d arrived with.

 

 _What did all of that mean?_ Laura asked herself over and over as she walked back to her dorm, still cringing at having been caught. Some part of her still wished she might have just _talked_ to Danny at some point, but even if that had been possible before, it surely wasn’t now. She wondered if there might have been a time before when she and Danny would have talked about the hunting trip, or about whatever scandalous thing Claire or her mother had said, and she wondered what was supposed to be so _obvious_ and why it decidedly was not.

Laura found Carmilla still in their room when she got back, lounging on her bed with a copy of Kierkegaard’s _Sickness Unto Death_ as if the world might go on for at least another few centuries without anything noteworthy happening.

Carmilla lowered the book, though, and looked at her. “How is she?” It was cold and almost too flat to be considered a question, a mere bald demand for information.

“How is who?”

“Oh, don’t even bother, cupcake, it’s written all over your face. How is she?”

“She’s fine, I guess.”

“Really?”

Laura found herself beginning to get irritated by the interrogation. “If there’s something you’d like to say, then say it.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not. You’re clearly not.”

“I am. I asked you how she is. That’s what I want to know.”

“Well, why do you even care?”

“I don’t. I’ve been appreciating the quiet tonight.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.” Carmilla was still watching her, tone and expression so impassive that they were surely hiding something. What did she know? Or did she merely enjoy toying with Laura, observing Laura’s mounting confusion? What the hell had gotten into (or come _back_ into) her lately?

Laura wanted in that moment to say something rude, shake Carmilla’s composure just a little, make her do something other than stare, but as she stood there wracking her brain, words receded farther and farther from her.

She gathered up her pajamas and headed to the bathroom. Carmilla’s clothes were littered haphazardly on the floor, and a sodden mass of black hair lurked in the bottom of the shower. She entertained a brief, satisfying fantasy of leaving the latter on Carmilla’s pillow for her to find later but instead flung it in the trash, where it fell far too softly for her liking.

The water was hot, scalding hot, and the swirling steam enveloped Laura at once. Standing in the shower, the water beating on her back, Laura rested her arm on the wall and leaned her head on it, letting her body sag. She was tired—tired of crying, tired of classes, tired of people unwilling to use their goddamn words. She considered taking up residence in the shower and simply refusing to leave, which sounded pretty nice. But finally a dullness took over, and even this idea lost its appeal.

When she emerged at last, the room was empty. Carmilla had gone, and Laura seized this opportunity to retrieve her pillow again. She got into bed and stared at the ceiling. The words _bio lab report_ floated through her mind, but they didn’t really mean anything.

For better or for worse, she thought, there was someone who would always have words to spare.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end was sleepy but also surprisingly awake. Laura still forgot about time zones.

“Dad?”

“Laura?” Immediate concern. “Why are you still up? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just thought I’d call and say hi.”

“Oh, well, it’s always nice to hear from you. How are classes?”

“Classes are okay. We’re going over a lot of things from high school in bio, so that’s made it easier, and I’m still really enjoying journalism.” How exciting that sounded.

“That’s great! Now…” He paused, and Laura knew it was coming. “You and that girl in your lit class you mentioned the other day, did you ever work—”

“Dad…” Laura’s voice filled with weariness and frustration. “Can we not talk about that right now?”

He heard it. “Of course. Do you remember Michael from down the street?”

“Yeah?”

“So I ran into him the other day, and I was asking him if it was too late in the year to plant something new in the garden, and he said we were definitely cutting it close, but if we got on top of it right away, we might still be able to get _something_ started. But Arlene said it’s absolutely too late, and you know how Michael is—he had to have the last word. So he did all this research, trying to convince her that the frost was this far off and this or that plant could survive it anyway, and no really, there was plenty of time. And of course, Arlene started talking about her grandmother, how _she’d_ always said…”

Bed was warm and more inhabitable than the shower. And as Laura’s dad talked about a world without ancient evils or difficult girls, he said “we” as if she’d never left it. When he finally bade her goodnight and she bade him good morning, she knew it was a temporary respite, but still, she was grateful for it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of pairings whose canonicity has come never or merely not yet, and our ever-wondrous capacity to make them happen regardless. Much love to the nerdsbians who first showed me the ways of Tumblr fandom.

“You’re staring again, my dear.”

Danny startled at the sound, quiet though it was, and tore herself away from the empty seat that lately had drawn her focus like a vacuum. That one Zeta (the genius behind “Daddy”?), who, judging by his midterm, apparently thought that class readings were optional, had stared daggers at her for half of class. Then he and Kirsch had begun staring daggers at each other. But Danny had barely noticed either of them—or the end of class.

“I—I’m sorry, Professor Wells.” She rubbed her eyes. “It won’t happen again, I swear.”

Professor Wells laughed. “You swore the same oath last week, Miss Lawrence. But”—she raised a hand—“I understand. Believe me, I understand better than you could imagine.” She pulled up a chair across from Danny and regarded her with soft, twinkling eyes. “How are you faring?”

“I’m…all right,” Danny said. “I’m all right.” She looked away, determined not to come undone under the professor’s gaze. It was bad enough that she’d asked Professor Wells to grade Laura’s midterm. The matter of Laura’s extension, its potential issuance and circumstances, remained an unmentioned, ominously buzzing bee in her bonnet.

Professor Wells was still watching her, taking in the scanty notes, the balled-up page in her dirt-smudged fist, the empty hand fidgeting for something else to seize.

“You need tea.” It wasn’t a question. Having reached this conclusion, she strode from the room, leaving Danny alone.

Solitude and emptiness were reassuring: a dusty green chalkboard bearing faint traces of cursive, desks in orderly rows that stretched reliably back through so many years of schooling, even her own cramped print making islands in a sea of whiteness. But then she saw Laura before her, ever so briefly, and her fist clenched again, as it had without fail.

A clink, and Professor Wells faced her again, tea in hand. “Miss Lawrence,” she said, “I ran into Liz Cochrane the other day…”

Danny’s attention was piqued at once.

“And she mentioned that she’d been hearing rumors about a particularly interesting project in her introductory journalism class…it seems to be well underway, despite having run into various…technical issues in the early stages.”

Well, that was good, wasn’t it? Laura was still carrying on with her mission. Except, Danny thought, she should have been there, should have been staring into that same camera beside her, not watching her walk into a cliché redemption story in too-short videos in between crying jags and unsatisfying compulsory parties. Danny should have staked that infuriatingly alluring leech back when she was still captive. Maybe it wasn’t too late, maybe she could still catch her off guard. Surely Laura would understand, given enough time, and if somehow she didn’t, well, maybe losing Laura was a necessary price to pay for her safety. Maybe that was what duty demanded.

“Drink,” Professor Wells said. “Are you quite sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” It came out sharper than she’d meant it, and somehow she knew that the harshness wouldn’t go unnoticed. She took a sip of tea, and the pleasant rush of warmth made her shiver.

Professor Wells surveyed her over her teacup, then set the cup down with a decisive air. “May I offer you a piece of advice, Miss Lawrence?”

“Of course, Professor.”

“Don’t do anything rash.”

Danny blinked at her. Had she given that impression?

“Or permanent.” The confident insight in the woman’s eyes surprised Danny, and she found herself struck, not for the first time, by the impression that Professor Wells had seen far more than she let on and knew about a great many things beyond the English novel—a bit like Carmilla in that way, but far more peaceful.

“May…may I ask you a question?” she ventured.

“You may.”

“When you said that you understood better than I could imagine, what did that mean?”

“Ahhh.” Professor Wells smiled, but it seemed to hide far more than it revealed. “There are some stories that I cannot tell—not for want of words, mind, but because they are simply too strange, and because the telling would jeopardize certain projects of my own. One must have one’s secrets. But suffice to say, I have been rash, and mad, and have nearly taken actions that, had my hand not been stayed, we would not have lived to regret. Loss,” she said, “loss makes us do crazy things, does it not?”

Danny returned the smile with some difficulty. “I suppose you could say that.”

The pair settled into a comfortable silence punctuated by the tinkle of china. Professor Wells was gazing into her teacup, far away in time or space or both. And for once, Danny wasn’t thinking about Laura, or Carmilla, or LaFontaine, or Elsie, or her sisters, or the Dean, or whoever would next ask her if she was or had ever been dating that Hollis girl or say something rude about it, or some unsettling conjunction of them.

“Do you know what’s going on around here?” she asked. “I mean, not just what’s going on with me?”

Professor Wells’s eyes flickered to the closed door, the closed window with the blinds drawn closed, the empty room. “Yes,” she said carefully.

Danny caught on, and she leaned closer. “If you know,” she asked, “then why don’t you…I don’t know…” She paused as the enigma impressed itself on her. What could Professor Wells _do_ , apart from deliver riveting, impossibly detailed lectures on Victorian literature? “…get involved, I guess?”

“As I mentioned, I have my own projects to attend to. I suspect that I would merely be insulting your intelligence if I were to tell you that teaching is my only task at this school.” Again with that smile, that glance to something on her right that only she could see. “Further, I think you’ll understand me when I say, this is your fight. Who knows,” she said, waving a hand, “I may indeed have a part to play. But, at any rate, not yet. In the meantime, I have the utmost confidence in you.”

Danny looked into her own cup. Whatever Professor Wells had seen in hers that pleased her so, Danny only saw her face, tired and unsure, staring back at her.

“You’re strong,” Professor Wells went on, “and unmistakably clever, and you love fiercely. All of which can be turned equally toward good or toward evil.”

“I’m sorry,” Danny blurted, “I’m sure this is a terribly personal question, but who did you lose?”

“Several people on different occasions—some forever, some only temporarily but still for far too long. But more than that, each time, I lost myself.”

Well, that was a little cheesy, and thoroughly evasive. But Danny supposed that perhaps the question had been out of line to begin with.

Professor Wells looked at the clock. “Oh dear, it’s getting rather late, isn’t it?”

“Oh—oh wow, it is. I had no idea, Professor. I hope I haven’t kept you too long.” Danny made to gather her things, the spell broken.

“It’s no matter.” Professor Wells remained seated, sipping her tea.

“Are you sure? I didn’t mean to get so…I know lately I haven’t really been on top of things…”

Professor Wells stood and laid a hand lightly on Danny’s shoulder. “Miss Lawrence, think nothing of it. You’ve done good work thus far, and I know what you’re capable of. In fact…” She paused in thought. “Miss Lawrence, if you ever need someone to talk to, just ask. I’d invite you to join my partner and I tonight for our usual late dinner, but given her unwavering insistence on punctuality, she’s likely already on the verge of hunting me down.”

Yet again that smile that hinted at a favorite joke. Danny suspected that she’d expended her allotment of dangerously personal questions, but she was glad that Professor Wells, for all her cryptic talk of loss and madness, was still so loved.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “I really appreciate everything—the invitation, the tea, the advice…”

“If I may offer one more piece,” Professor Wells said, gathering up the cups and walking to the door of the classroom, “look after your heart. If you lose yourself to this, in so doing you will lose her all over again.”

Danny nodded slowly, not quite sure if she understood.

“Remember,” Professor Wells said, holding the door open for her, “this is your fight, and you can more than handle it, but you are not alone.” She bowed her head for a second, surprising Danny with the sudden formality. “Good luck, and I’ll see you in class next week.”

As the wind struck her, Danny noticed that the ordinarily ever-present thoughts of Laura did not accompany it, and the knowledge unsettled her. Did she want this relief? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was for the best, at least for now. She pulled her coat a little tighter around her and began to make her way home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee little shout-out to thatissodawn, who, ages ago, unknowingly made me reconsider ending this one with the yummy irresolution of chapter 4. To you and to all, enjoy.

Laura had never given much thought to how she would die. And in a fragrant, locked broom closet with Perry, the _how_ seemed decided well enough without her input. Laura, one sturdy but worn old door away from her future as a tasty, disappointingly small dessert, still had her thoughts fixed firmly on _when_.

Perry had gone quiet on the way over, and quiet she remained, a still mass seeming to radiate adrenaline in the dark and undoubtedly planning, with acute focus, exactly what she’d do to their captors once they returned. Laura remembered her slow, deliberate stride as they had followed LaFontaine’s wavering course to the Lustig building, her resolve having bestowed on her an uncharacteristic serenity.

Laura knew no such patience, no such peace. She turned to root around in the closet—a bucket, an array of ripe-smelling rags, an array of equally disgusting jugs potentially containing cleaners (one could only hope), a loose layer of dry, shredded paper towels, the expected brooms. She seized one of the brooms, feeling the unvarnished wood in her hands, and assessed its possibilities.

It could be broken to form a jagged point. A crude stake that would have made even Perry’s own hastily-carved implement look like fine craftsmanship, but one that would do fine in a pinch.

Laura crossed it diagonally across the width of the closet, but she felt Perry stay her hand. In the dim light, Perry looked at her and shook her head.

“I’ve considered that,” she whispered. “The noise would alert them, and they would still outnumber us.”

It was no use anyhow. Striking it against the wall would likely not afford sufficient force to productively damage either it or the wall, and such a move would summon the vampires again. There was no good surface against which it could be bent.

“Do you have a knife?”

“No,” Perry said, unruffled.

A stake was out. Shame, really, since if she could fashion one, maybe she’d have time for two. Laura brought the broom down in front of her like a staff. When the vampires came back, she might be able to take them by surprise, hold them off for at most a second or two before they made use of their superior speed and strength. Perry, even armed with the decapitated mop in the corner and whatever combat experience she’d acquired from the subsets of the Silas population that didn’t yield to denial or doggedly peaceful negotiation, would fare less well. And in the end, the difference was moot.

“Anything else?”

“My keys. A medicated chapstick.” Perry put her hands on her hips, pursing her lips in concentration. “We’ll come up with something.”

Laura listened for the “If we don’t,” the “or else,” but it never came.

She fished in her pockets, more for something to do with idle hands than with the aim of finding anything useful. Luck favored her, though, in the form of a thin little lump of plastic, forgotten and overlooked.

Her phone. She pulled it out, flipped it open to reveal a faint glow of hope. A closer look. Four signal bars. _Four_ , when her own dorm room rarely offered more than two. The universe had a strange sense of humor, and right then, she could appreciate it.

Perry glanced over for a second, then went back to facing the door, back to planning. She had decided, it would seem, that everyone of importance was already in the building, at most shouting distance away.

Laura looked at her tiny screen, and a weird, out-of-tune part of her, for a second, suggested that she send her biology lab partner a quick text, letting him know that she probably wouldn’t make it in on Monday.

But then, much more strongly, she thought of her dad. She’d left him a goodbye message in her last video, but, she realized, she’d never told him about the project. He’d have objected to the webcam out of hand, even more to the unabashed consumption of sugar in broad view of everyone, the clearly misguided reception that the bear spray still met, the ambiguously evil roommate. How long would it be before he saw her farewell? He'd call, and she wouldn't answer, and then he'd start worrying, and then he'd call again, and...

She pulled up her phone’s contacts, but Perry shot her a look.

“The noise,” she reminded her. “They’ll hear you.”

Why did Perry care? What did it matter if they barged in now or took their sweet time, letting their dinner marinate in the mysterious smells of the closet? They could be on their way back at any minute. They might not even be within earshot, for all she or Perry knew. The time to act was now.

“I have to call him,” Laura said, the notion seeming more surreal the more she prepared herself to do it. “He should hear it from me. I have to say goodbye. Hear his voice one more time.”

“I didn’t come out here,” Perry said evenly, staring at the door again, “for us to die in a cramped, cluttered, thoroughly unhygienic custodial closet.”

Laura’s futile plans ran through her head again. “We don’t have a chance!”

Perry said nothing. For better or for worse, she was all in.

Laura wasn’t. She went back to scanning her contacts. It was worth it to give her dad this final gift.

“Dad,” she read, but below it, jumping out at her, “Danny Lawrence.”

Almost as soon as the name stood out, Laura’s heart sank and the entry resumed its unremarkable place in the alphabetical list.

 _Don’t call me again_.

Had she meant it? Would she still come if Laura called her, here, now? Or would Laura’s last words fall on deliberately deafened ears, the rescue she needed never arriving? Would she even be able to get them out in time before Danny hung up or she was discovered making the call?

_Don’t call me again._

Maybe Danny wouldn’t even answer. Maybe she was already off doing whatever she’d done before she’d met Laura. Maybe she was out at a real party, or ruing her involvement with Laura in the sympathetic company of her sisters, or grading a stack of lit papers short one and pretending not to notice (or really not noticing) anything missing. Laura’s last video would be joined by Laura’s last whispered voicemail, wasted on someone who didn’t care anymore. Better to call her dad, who had protected her with everything he had even though he had never dreamt of warning her against a fate like this. He had always cared, always been there, even when she resisted him, and even now, he was the one person of whom she remained utterly sure. But still…was there no way out, no way to avoid the task of telling him that he’d ultimately failed?

_Don’t call me again._

What about the rest of the victims? The way Danny had once said that it was her job to keep her safe as if this were both uncontroversial and apparent, the way she had so eagerly teamed up to investigate the disappearances when she’d found out about Laura’s project…The truth struck Laura like a tomato lobbed from afar—blatant, jarring, leaving a disconcerting residue. Laura had possibly exhausted Danny’s patience, worn out her fleeting affections. But Danny’s righteousness had likely predated their quasi-relationship, and she was suddenly sure that it would have outlasted it as well. Danny wouldn’t come for her, not now, but maybe Laura’s summons was still enough to bring her for Natalie, or LaFontaine, or her own sister Elsie…

_Don’t call me again._

Well, fine. Laura wouldn’t call her, then. She looked at Perry, whose renewed stillness conveyed that she remained deep in thought and had detected no disturbance outside yet. There might still be time. Keeping one eye on her, Laura raised her tiny phone a little higher and began typing, painstakingly one by one, sixty quietly desperate characters.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a strong, unmistakably clever fandom who loves fiercely but, I hope, knows how to choose its battles well.

If they couldn’t find her, they couldn’t make her go. And her sisters, having been persuaded by now that she’d sufficiently gotten over that sad mess with Hollis, weren’t about to pass up a party like tonight’s by wasting time tracking her down.

It was better up in the tree, surrounded by empty air instead of people, far from all of the chaos that preferred to stay closer to the ground. Danny looked up at the still branches farther above her, traced the leaves out and back, picked idly at the bark in front of her.

They’d gone out under the pretense of preventing further abductions, but the more creative among them had later revised their justification to checking whether the sacrifices were to take place there. Really, Danny thought, they were tired of finding nothing. Tired of the stalled investigation, they were itching for a break. And to most of her sisters, this meant a party. To the rest, a rehashing of the other Summer Society mystery: who had recently left a bouquet of violets among the notes and assorted trinkets that had accumulated outside Elsie’s door. Danny found herself uninterested in both of these pursuits.

Her phone chimed, and she felt irritation spark. So much for solitude. Well, maybe they _had_ figured out who was behind the flowers, and that might generate a little drama that, refreshingly, didn’t involve her. Maybe she’d head back, watch that unfold, put on something loud and celebratory-sounding to keep the others at bay, and get some grading done. She’d get back on track, make the best use of a Friday night that she still could.

First, though, the message. Danny found her phone, woke it up, and caught sight of the text’s sender.

“Laura Hollis,” she said aloud to her phone, glaring at it, “what could you possibly want from me this time?”

She sat there as the screen went dark again, wariness urging her to wait. Was it really a good idea to get involved in Laura’s affairs again? Laura probably still wanted to talk about her paper, and Danny wasn’t sure if she could yet discuss it dispassionately. She _was_ sure that she could leave it all alone, ignore the text, and leave Laura to deal with her own time management problems without feeling particularly bad about it. This was a reasonable thing to do. Laura could, after all, take care of herself just fine. She'd been quite explicit about that.

“Oh, why the hell not? I could get used to the peace, and we can’t have that, can we?”

Danny gathered herself up, took a few more seconds to soak in the stillness of the night and the view of the shadowy trees, and opened the message.

“Trapped in basement of old chapel. Come quick. Bring stakes,” she read under her breath. She laid her head in her hands, the fragile detachment becoming sand that slipped through her fingers. “Well, pierce me deep and leave me to pine. Here we go again.”

She clambered down the tree in a flash, back to earth. The run to Crowley Hall took but a few minutes.

 

“She went off to fight my mother barefoot,” Carmilla said as they left the room, Danny on her way to round up reinforcements. “Barefoot.”

It took Danny a second to figure out why Carmilla considered this at all strange. But when she reached the Summer Society house again, she still hadn’t figured out how to stop finding it funny and dangerously adorable.

“Stakes,” she said, by way of greeting.

Claire got to her feet at once. “You found them.”

Danny nodded. “We make our move now, we might still be in time. Should I go round up our sisters at the party?”

“Party was already canceled half an hour ago.”

“Mushrooms again?”

“Outbreak of inexplicable Finnish.” Claire glanced around them, taking a count. “I’m in. You’re in. Winters just left for the lab and can be armed and on her way in five. Vasseur just went upstairs with some guy, but she'll get ready and head out anyway. Fredrickson is taking a nap—I’ll wake her. The rest of the lazy dogs are probably out in the woods screwing off—you’ll have to go get them. Get to it. I’ll have the stakes and this bunch assembled. Meet me back here.”

“Will do,” Danny said. “Oh—and while you’re at it, alert the Zetas.”

Claire stared, incredulous. “We’re bringing those morons?”

“Claire, we’re going to need them. Don’t get me wrong,” she said, at the other girl’s look, “I hate saying it as much as you hate hearing it, but this is bigger than us. We need everyone we can get.”

“Goddess. Okay, fine. I’ll call Winters and get started convincing them to come along. You rouse the girls inside, then take to the woods and do your thing. Meet me and my barbarian horde here.”

“It’s a plan.” She nodded at Claire, who nodded back and departed at a run.

Danny ascended the stairs, pounded on the first door on the right.

“Fredrickson! The night is alight!”

From within, she heard the prompt and surprisingly alert answer, “I rise to meet it. Literally. Down in three.”

One down, on to the next.

Elsie’s door, sprinkled with notes, stood before her. Danny pressed her palm to the wood. “Hang tight just a little longer, girl. We’re coming to get you.”

Onward to the next.

“McCorrigan! The night is alight!”

Nobody home. Well, it didn’t hurt to check. Onward.

“Vasseur! The night is alight!”

“Yeah, how about that? Bright for a new moon—kinda weird.”

Danny knocked harder. “Ahem. The night is alight!”

“I get it, I get it…” The door opened. “Oh hey, where are you gonna go like that? We've got to do something about that outfit before you go anywhere.”

Danny looked down at herself in puzzlement, but then back up at the girl in front of her, whose shoulders she seized with sudden urgency.

“Vasseur! This is the night. I go to rally the sisters.”

“Ohhh, why didn’t you say so?” she said, smirking. “Y’know, you could've come and rallied me any other night…except right now I’m with...”

“ _Vasseur_!” Danny shook her. “Focus. Arm yourself. We go into battle.”

“Oh, right, okay, sure. I’m there.” She turned to look at someone out of view. “Baby, I gotta go fight or something. You good to wait until I get back?”

Danny peered around her. “Bring him.”

“You sure? He’s a Zeta, so...”

“Has he got a trident?”

“Well, that’s kinda why he’s over, but I didn’t think you were into…”

“They’re all coming. Bring him.”

“Whoa.” Vasseur stared at her. “Wait. You’re talking about _that_ battle, aren’t you?”

Danny waited. What the hell had Vasseur _thought_ she'd meant?

“Oh—oh shit.” Vasseur's eyes widened with dawning comprehension. “Oooh.” A hiss of breath. “Okay. I'll be—I'll be right down.”

Danny rolled her eyes. Inattentive freshmen causing unnecessary delays. How Vasseur had managed to miss both most of her training and the ongoing investigation was beyond her understanding, but the girl would catch on eventually. If Laura’s call for help had been prompt, and there was no telling if it was, there wasn’t time for this foolishness. She hurtled out of the house through a back door and started off on the familiar route through the trees.

 

This was the stuff of legends, Danny thought irritably, bristling with stakes as she and Claire led their assembled forces. Or it was supposed to be. Charging into battle to save one’s beloved from evil. Except not so much, really.

Vasseur, energized by being surrounded by so many people, had decided that this was an excellent time to sing Katy Perry’s “Last Friday Night” at the top of her lungs, to the approval of her boyfriend (or whatever he was), who joined in. Claire had found this wholly inappropriate for the occasion at hand and raised her own voice in unsuccessful challenge with an increasingly shrill reply of “Shut up, this is serious!” Whereupon the Zetas, who had observed the contest for control with undisguised amusement, had decided to contribute “Pizza or death!” Which further agitated Claire, who could not leave such defiance unanswered but soon found herself spread a little thin.

It was at the head of this dysfunctional alliance, with Vasseur and her boyfriend still singing happily in the midst of the ruckus, that Danny now found herself marching. And at their current rate of motion, she’d be marching there for quite a while. She looked skyward, searching the stars in the nigh-universal plea for patience, accompanying it with an urgent wish for speed.

Eyes cast upward, something caught her attention in a window high in the administration building—two flashes of faint purple light in rapid succession. Who remained there so late on a Friday night, especially when the Dean was likely away supervising her sacrifices? She watched it as they passed below—again the two flashes. What was that? Three flashes. One long burst of bright violet, then darkness. Danny wasn’t sure what it all meant, didn’t remember ever seeing anything like it at Silas, but she had the strange, inexplicable feeling that it was something good.

A little further on, blessed relief: shortly after the song ended for the third time, the Zetas relented, having lost interest in being obnoxious, their voices dwindling to scattered mutters of “This sucks,” “Bro, check _her_ out,” and “Where’s the party? I thought there was a party.” Danny heard Winters ask Fredrickson something containing the word “Finnish,” and quiet conversation gradually broke out among the other sisters.

The Lustig was ahead, and the sight fueled the assembled students. The crowd’s unruly motions began to settle into a purely accidental orderliness that might, with luck, acquire a similarly accidental timeliness. It quickened, drew tighter, advanced increasingly as one, its focus singular.

Danny suddenly thought of Laura, trapped somewhere in that dark, mostly empty building, perhaps feet away from a swarm of vampires, thought of her urgent summons and seemingly unshakable faith. Some tiny part of her, of which she was swiftly ashamed, whispered to turn back, to refuse the fight—just to prove that faith wrong.

As the last murmurs of conversation died, leaving only the muted thunder of many footfalls, Danny hushed that horrible, spiteful whisper. She looked over her shoulder at the crowd, which seemed somehow to have grown, unfamiliar faces migrating toward its heart. Fredrickson gave her a nod and a half-smile. Vasseur drew a stake and tapped the side of her own head with it, raising an eyebrow. A Zeta saluted her, then became embattled with his nearest brother as a result, jostling with him in strained silence. Beside her, Claire surged ahead now, easily keeping pace but issuing no challenge, drawing the rest along with them.

They moved forward in a ready sea of wordless, suspended strength, and as she turned to look at the Lustig again, Danny could almost feel them just behind her, just beyond her peripheral vision. Their righteousness and power, which she had reluctantly mustered, had become her own again. She wasn’t doing it for Laura, she knew, as much as she might have once wanted to, as cool as it might have been. She was doing it for duty, for herself, and for them all, and that was more than enough.

The front doors loomed ahead. Danny reached them first, pulled them open, and entered with Silas’s warriors flooding in behind her.


End file.
